Mrs. Hamilton had heard of a widow lady, who with an only daughter had
recently removed to the village, which lay at the foot of the long
hill on which stood the old homestead. She had heard, too, that Mrs.
Carter, though rather singular in some respects, was unusually
benevolent, spending much time in visiting the sick and needy, and, as
far as possible, ministering to their comfort.

Extending her hand, she said, "I know you by reputation, Mrs. Carter,
and feel greatly pleased that you have thought to visit me. Pray be
seated."

This last invitation was superfluous, for with the air of a person
entirely at home, the lady had seated herself, and as the room was
rather warm, she threw back her bonnet, disclosing to view a mass of
rich brown hair, which made her look several years younger than she
really was. Nothing could be more apparently kind and sincere than
were her words of sympathy, nothing more soothing than the sound of
her voice; and when she for a moment raised Mrs. Hamilton, while she
adjusted her pillows, the sick woman declared that never before had
any one done it so gently or so well.

Mrs. Carter was just resuming her seat when in the adjoining hall
there was the sound of a heavy tread, and had Mrs. Hamilton been at
all suspicious of her visitor she would have wondered at the flush
which deepened on her cheek when the door opened and Mr. Hamilton
stood in their midst. On seeing a stranger he turned to leave, but his
wife immediately introduced him, and seating himself upon the sofa, he
remarked, "I have seen you frequently in church, Mrs. Carter, but I
believe I have never spoken with you before."